A Coho in Ontario

Sweat froze in his hair and snot froze in his beard, but Liam didn’t dare slow down. The sentries were making another round soon and he must cross the border before they did.

The frigid night smothered Liam’s lungs. His dad once told him the key to running was all in the breathing, but the cold air trapped his heavy breaths anyway; oxygen poured in, but carbon dioxide couldn’t get out. It felt like being buried alive by a thousand wet blankets. The snow swallowed every blundering footstep and every sound in the woods heralded doom. Frost had numbed the wound in his side, but that fact didn’t ease his anxiety.

The Americans had to know. If they mobilized in time, the world could stand a chance and Canada’s sacrifice would not be in vain. Canada’s conquest would not be in vain.

Whispers had leaked through every crack and crevice at the CSIS until the pipes themselves added to the gossip, rumor mongering, and paranoia that swept the nation. The survivors had trudged in from the north: from Yellowknife and northern Quebec, a few from Victoria Island and Iqaluit. Shortly after, intelligence lost all contact with the Northwest Territories, Whitehorse, and everywhere north of Hudson Bay.

“Green lights in the lake.”

“Green lights in the trees.”

“Green lights in their eyes.”

Liam slowed down as he reached the rocky, trash-filled banks of Lake Ontario. Ripples lapped against the shore, dragging rocks and litter into the depths. A breeze from the other side carried a miasma of oil that thrashed against his lungs. His legs trembled. Liam crouched at the edge of the bank to catch his breath. The pier was not too far.

He was never cut out to be a field agent, not like his father. His dad had tried to toughen him up and take him to the pier to fish for coho. It was calm, for a time. Liam would drown out his father’s voice and imagined floating on the lake without a boat. But by his fourteenth birthday, no one had caught, let alone seen, a coho salmon in the lake for several years.

That hadn’t deterred his dad; he made Liam hike with him for six miles to a frozen pond every Sunday. They’d sit right in the middle and carve a hole in the ice to fish. They never caught anything as big as a coho and Liam hated it, but it was preferable to Sunday School.

At this moment, he half-wanted to stop and let the lake claim him. Someday, he thought, it’ll claim us all.

The Saint Lawrence River was not more than a hundred yards away. New York City lay just beyond. He trudged in that direction, but his knees ached too much. The trees flared with a pale green light. The bank stretched on and on. If he ran the sentry would spot and overtake him.

Lake Ontario’s gentle wavelets rocked against each other, cutting the green light and glittering like a gem. Between those sparkling lights, the water was dark. The ripples brightened.

I’ll swim, he thought, Yeah, I was a pretty good swimmer.

Liam dove into the icy water.

His arms felt the shock first. The waves grasped his clothes. The lake and night conspired with gravity. He kicked feebly against the water and the numbing cold.

“Halt!” The galvanic ultimatum ripped across the water.

The light engulfed him. Liam couldn’t tell which direction it came from.

“Please!” he cried out.

Liam treaded water, thirty or so meters from the shore, but a metal pincer from the frigid depths gripped his leg and yanked him beneath the surface. He swallowed what tasted like icy grease.

The voice rippled across the waves again, and Liam trembled. He forced his hands in front of him and kicked, dragging it with his breaststroke. He choked and threw his arms up to the surface, coughed and sputtered, but the lake rushed in.

“Pl- please,” he said again, his voice cracked, “We’re under-”

The stygian waters cradled his face. The light refracted into a starburst of emerald and viridian; but its source remained still and burning. Like dad’s eyes. He reached for his father, but a gentle tug drew him backwards and downwards. He thrashed the trapped leg, and kicked the claw with the other. Every exertion burned his lungs.

A large fish swam above to inspect the bubbles, his breath. The green light glinted along its body and lent its eyes an eldritch glow. A discarded hook hung from its lip. The fish lost interest in his dwindling air and glided away. A shift in the light revealed a final flash of scintillating silver and red scales.

They’d never left after all. Dad would be disappointed.

The fish disappeared into the inky waters.

Liam had to catch it. It was his last chance, his only chance. He hooked the back of his shoe and slid it loose. It sank.

He swam.

Liam breached the lake surface and the sudden expansion of his cold compressed lungs electrified him. He spun his head left and right. The green light, the pale hunter, and the shrouded reaper were gone.

My shoe. They took my shoe. The shivers in his throat trapped his laughter. As efficient as the sentries were, they didn’t adapt well.

Liam swam after the last coho into darkness.